


Cats and Dogs

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Porn, Canon Disabled Character, Character Study, Daddy Kink, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gentle Sex, Hate Sex, Honour, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, Seduction, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Topping from the Bottom, and the lack thereof, oh jaime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 07:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10826877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Six Starks Jaime Lannister thought about fucking (and one he actually did).





	Cats and Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's meant to be 5+1 but I had an extra idea so.

**Lyanna Stark**

It's hard not to wonder. It's certainly a far nicer thing to think about then men burning alive in wildfire, or the war tearing its way through Westeros, or his father whose word still does not come, or Princess Elia's face fixed in a mask of heartbreak, abandoned by her husband and imprisoned by her goodfather, but still determined to be as strong as she can even if the sadness drips from her frail body like she's been caught in a summer storm. None of that is at all easy to think about, and so Jaime thinks about something else: _gods, is fucking the Stark girl that good Rhaegar? Was it worth all this?_

Jaime remembers her, vaguely, and sure, she was pretty enough, but probably less pretty than Rhaegar's actual wife – and clearly not a patch on Cersei's beauty. She laughed herself sick when she heard about it. In truth, Jaime thinks she's never really gotten over being refused, and that thought makes him a little nauseous.

_Clearly, the Stark girl must be a wolf beneath the sheets as well._ That's the only explanation for it. Although Jaime wonders how Rhaegar got to know that before he ran off with her, since if she'd already given it to him you'd think he wouldn't bother.

As men die, as Aerys loses what's left of his mind, as Elia haunts like a ghost, and as Father does not come, Jaime thinks about fucking Lyanna Stark. In his heart, he apologises to Cersei, but he is merely trying to understand. What can it be that Rhaegar saw in the girl? Something like he sees in Cersei? Something wild, beautiful, dangerous – something that can control you utterly, not because it's any stronger than you, but because you want it to?

But it isn't the same; he and Cersei were born together, they shared a womb, they belong together. Rhaegar barely knows the Stark girl.

_Do you love me?_ he imagines her asking as she pins his hands above his head, grinds herself down upon him, a shield of dark hair protecting her from view. _Do you want me? Would you do anything for me?_

_Yes,_ Jaime answers in a voice either his own or his prince's. She chuckles.

_Would you lie for me? Would you hurt for me? Would you die for me? Would you kill for me? Would you start a war for me?_

_Yes, yes, yes,_ he says to it all. When he spills into his palm, he thinks he is staring in Lyanna's eyes – but all of a sudden they are green.

He does not ask Rhaegar when the man returns to the capital. Despite having abandoned his wife (who, it should be noted, does not come to see him, which seems to render the prince saddened, but not surprised) to fuck a girl barely of age, Rhaegar still sees himself as the gallant prince. If Jaime said such a thing, he might find himself duelling the man for his lady's honour. That is the last thing King Aerys' forces need.

When Rhaegar is dead, when he's killed Aerys, when the throne is Robert's, he sees poor Elia's body, broken and bloodied beyond recognition by _his father's_ men. It doesn't matter why Rhaegar fucked the Stark girl, he realises. It never matters why.

* * *

**Ned Stark**

The man's eyes never leave him, he swears, he's being followed about the Red Keep, just so Stark can glower and judge. It's driving him mad. Doesn't he have anything better to do? Doesn't he have frozen rocks back north to glare at? Why won't he let Jaime be?

_You would have done the same,_ he thinks as Stark sneers at him in his white cloak, now nicely washed clean and yet, never clean enough for the likes of Ned Stark. _Any man with a shred of decency would have. It was the only thing to do._

Stark is one to judge, looking at Jaime with those impervious eyes having just come through the wreck Jaime's father made of the city, and probably having taken as many spoils of war as any man, probably having just gotten his cock out of some poor blacksmith's wife. Hell, if he'd been a second earlier the man probably would have taken Jaime while his blood was up, right there in a pool of King Aerys' blood. The thought should disgust him, but instead, a strange smugness fills his breast, makes him feel warmer than he has since the city fell. Perhaps he'd even enjoy it, having Lord Stark above him rutting like a dog, no better than Jaime, no better than Aerys, no better than an animal.

_I should have fucked him in the throne room,_ Jaime thinks. Oh, that would wipe that judging look off his face. He'd make the the Quiet Wolf scream loud enough to wake the gods – in pain, in pleasure, he can't make up his mind. Both, probably. He should have pushed the high and mighty Lord Stark onto his knees and taken him like a bitch in heat, and he'd still be doing it when the new king came to claim his throne – and wouldn't Stark hate that, being seen in such a state by his beloved King Robert? Unless, of course, he already has been. Indeed when Robert takes Cersei to wed Ned Stark seems the only person as upset as Jaime is.

_You are not so perfect,_ he thinks as Lord Stark prepares to leave them, prepares to go find his sister (Jaime almost forgot about her), but as long as he's there he will not stop looking at Jaime that way. _You would have done the same. And I bet you've spread your legs for Robert a thousand times. I could make a whore of you in a second, if I wanted._

When Lord Stark comes back without his sister but with a squalling babe, Jaime smirks to himself. _But there is no need. Some Dornish whore has taken care of it for me._

* * *

**Jon Snow**

Stark's bastard does grow up pretty, it must be said, and probably doesn't look as much like his father as he gets credit for – he does look a lot like his father, but there is also something else in his looks, something very familiar. Jaime can't place it though.

The boy would probably be easy to bed as well. He's as much of a bore about his honour as any of them, and Jaime overhears him nattering to his uncle about joining the Night's Watch (and oh, the poor kid) – but still, he's desperate for approval, for affection, and that just radiates off him. Ned Stark seems to love him as well as any man would a trueborn son, and Lady Stark has done him a great credit by allowing her husband to keep another woman's son in their home – he knows Cersei would never have stood for that if Robert had tried to bring one of his thousands of bastards to the Red Keep; she'd have probably had the poor boy killed. Still, Jon Snow lacks what he needs, lacks the honour accorded his brothers just by birthright, lacks a true place inside Winterfell's cold walls, and it couldn't be hard to convince the boy that Jaime could give him that.

He imagines sidling up to the boy, making him smile, making him laugh, making him share his secrets and his fears. Seducing him, in truth. He wouldn't be cruel about it though, no, he'd do Stark's son a great honour, he'd be kind and gentle and stroke the boy's hair while he fucked his arse, tell him what a pretty boy he was, what a brave boy, taking it so well. The poor bastard would probably call him daddy while he was fucked, so desperate for love, but Jaime would allow it. Oh, but Cersei would be jealous.

Well maybe she should join them. The thought of her fucking another man makes Jaime sick, but Jon Snow is barely more than a boy, and they are the one soul in two bodies – so how could he ever refuse her the right to share? He's sure Snow would be more than eager. After all, it is a mother's love he lacks, not a father's, and Cersei would be irresistible to any man – let alone such a green boy. Yes, the boy would make them his new mother and father while they fucked him senseless, took every last scrap of honour from the one stain upon his father's. Jaime can only imagine the look on Ned Stark's face, seeing his own son shared between Jaime and his sister, and Jaime would laugh as the boy sucked his cock while pleasuring Cersei with his own. _You don't mind, do you Stark?_ he'd sneer. _After all, you weren't using him for anything._

It's a stupid fantasy, Cersei would slap him if he even suggested it, although if the boy just happened to stumble upon them, who knows. The bastard doesn't find them though, one of the trueborns does, just a little boy, but he _knows_ and no-one can ever know, for Cersei's sake, for her children's sake, he has to, he has to, he has to...

Bran Stark falls and and Jaime returns to King's Landing and Jon Snow goes to the wall. The boy will not find his honour there. He will not find it anywhere.

* * *

**Robb Stark**

The boy is just like his father, and it's this thought that drives Jaime mad as he rots away as the young wolf's prisoner. What a stupid name. Wolves are animals, wild and reckless and uncontrollable, but the boy is all expectation and insecurity and _honour._ Gods, Jaime hates him.

Young though is correct. The boy is young, young and pretty. The boy takes after his mother in the face, all red curls and shining blue eyes. Innocent, somehow, even as he comes from battle after battle soaked with blood. He despises Jaime – which might be fair enough, given he tried to kill the boy's brother, but it's more than that. He has Jaime bound and caged and still feels the need to gloat. He's so _superior_ , just like his father, thinks he'd never do such terrible things. But he'll learn. He's a king now, how could he not?

He wouldn't be gentle with this one. He'd lock the boy up with his own chains and fuck him bloody in a puddle of mud and filth, spit on his face and pull his red hair and call him a whore, leave him broken and sobbing. The boy would enjoy it though. How could he not? So proper, so virtuous, how can he not long to be made a whore? Jaime would do it where everyone could see as well, all those bannermen who've bent the knee to this brat, he'd make them listen to the boy as he whined and begged for Lannister cock. He'd make the boy's mother watch as well. She's probably as much of a whore as he is. Fucking Tullys, always on about their duty and honour, and Jaime bets they're all sluts underneath. He's sure Lady Lysa never stuck to her husband's bed. He was meant to marry her once. That might be why Lady Catelyn misses her husband so dearly; no more wolf cock for her.

He wants to ruin the boy. He wants to tie him up and tear him to pieces, take that honour these Starks love more than life itself and destroy it, and destroy Robb in the process, make him love what Jaime has done to him, and make him loathe himself for loving it.

Yet when he hears of the boy's brothers, there is a flicker of pity in him, even if he is the last man alive with the right to show any grief over little Bran Stark. Still, poor lad. Robb loved the Greyjoy boy like a brother, and this is what it earned him. Idly, Jaime wonders if he was fucking him. Maybe. Later on, thoughts of Rhaenys and her kitten, Aegon's head smashed against the wall, and poor old Elia Martell cross his mind. It was always going to happen, of course. Something was always going to break the boy. This in particular might be a surprise, but the boy should have expected he'd have to learn all this some day.

The boy is just like his father. The boy is just like his mother. The boy is just like him. Gods, Jaime hates him so much.

* * *

**Catelyn Stark**

There are not many women over the years who've earnt his eye apart from Cersei, but in truth, she was one of the few. He remembers thinking that if he must take a wife other than his sister, he would much rather the older Tully girl than the younger. They looked fairly alike, back then, and yet Lady Catelyn was always infinitely more interesting than her silly, shy sister. Jaime's not sure why, since she too was all Tully, forever on about honour and duty, a horrible bore – and yet Jaime always sensed there was something beneath that, something wild and fierce buried in her heart. Repressed might be a less kind word for it. Just for a moment, and cursing the infidelity in his heart, he imagined fucking her, taking her maidenhead for his own, leaving her with a filthy little secret for the proper Tully lady to hide away and make herself smile with.

She's a great beauty even now, twenty years on with five babes to her name, not bloated and worn down like her sister was – which seems quite cruel on the gods' part, as usually a childless woman's only comfort is her svelte figure. She would not smile if he fucked her now. He never knew Lady Catelyn had such a great capacity to hate, she hates as well as any woman he's ever known, even Cersei, and she hates _him_ most of all. In truth, she is more the wolf than her husband was, than her son is, although he doubts she'd be complimented if he said as much. He'd have to force himself upon her, and he doesn't have the stomach for that. Besides, he'd probably lose an eye.

Or perhaps she'd force herself on him. She's not all that strong, but he's in chains, and he's been rotting here for damn near a year now, could he resist? She wouldn't let herself be unfaithful to her husband's memory, especially not with him, but this would be different, this would be putting him in his place, using him to fill up the holes his family has left, making no more than a pleasure slave out of him. He would not let himself be unfaithful to Cersei, but his body would stir for her, it's stirring right now. It's been so long, and fucking her would be like fucking Cersei, heat and passion and fury and danger. But no love. She would never love him, that much is obvious to the dumbest of fools, but in a pinch hate would do. He _misses_ Cersei. He'd curse and damn himself as she slid down over his hard length, but surely Cersei would understand?

He wants to touch himself. He wants to touch himself thinking of Catelyn, not Cersei. It might be best that he's in chains then.

She hates him even when she frees him. The whole thing is terribly confusing, and he mocks and taunts her as much because it is his default behaviour when he's not sure what to do as anything, but he supposes she might have gone mad with grief. That's the only reason she'd try and earn an oath out of him, the Kingslayer she so despises, and the thought stirs his bitterness. _You'd have killed him long before I did,_ he thinks. _Your eyes are so cold and yet your blood is too hot, my lady, I don't think you could have controlled yourself, if you saw what I saw._

And so he leaves Riverrun as Catelyn's secret, off with her creature to rescue two girls she can't expect he will truly bring back. He has her hope, but not her faith, but some part of him wants to do as bid, if only for the look on her face. He's always done as bid for Cersei, hasn't he?

Somewhere at the back of his mind he's started to wonder, is she so like him? If he'd been forced to wed her, could they have learned to love each other?

* * *

**Sansa Stark**

His last chance for honour, he tells himself, even as he has no idea where she might be and Brienne is the one looking for her, not him. But he is trying. Lady Catelyn is gone and so he has no idea what Brienne will do once she finds her, but the oath remains, and he knows Brienne will never give up on it, even if she should.

He tells himself he should give up on it also, and yet at the back of his mind the girl remains, the sweet giggling thing he met at Winterfell fawning over Joffrey, the fierce young woman she must have hardened into, much like her mother at that age. _Save me,_ she whispers, eyes wet and an inexplicable Rhoynish lilt to her voice.

_I'm trying,_ he answers.

He shouldn't, but he thinks of songs and stories, the things the girl used to love, from what little he remembers of her. Of golden knights and the fair maids they save. Of how those stories end, with love and marriage and children. What a stupid idea. He is of the Kingsguard. He is old enough to be her father, and a cripple besides. He–

(He has no other woman, he reminds himself, remembering the letter he cast to the fire. _She's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy._ He doesn't need to feel guilty, not anymore. Or does he?)

–and he is a Lannister, he is the man who threw her brother from a window and set the dogs of war upon her, and not even saving her life could ever make her forgive him that. If he were her he'd slit his throat.

And yet the girl remains. He would be gentle with her, for he may be her first, and even if he wasn't, he doubts any of her experiences have been pleasant (he doesn't want to think Tyrion would hurt her, but he never thought Tyrion would hurt their father either, and so maybe he doesn't know Tyrion anymore). He would kiss her and stroke her hair and tell her how beautiful she was, how strong, how brave. They say she's a great beauty, so much like her mother, and Catelyn Stark was one of the few women he ever thought he could feel something for who was not Cersei. He has given up Cersei. So could Sansa Stark make him feel the same?

By some miracle, Brienne does find her. And so when Cersei is truly gone – when Cersei is dead – and Jaime finds himself, laughing all the while, heading north for lack of anywhere else to go, it is her who talks her brothers into letting him stay. It is her who talks all the North of slaughtering him where he stands.

“My lord,” she says, voice cool and courteous, and she looks so much like her mother but Jaime does not see that same wild streak buried beneath, no he finds far more of her father's cold steel, although she does not look at him with his disdain, which is some miracle in itself. “Brienne tells me you sent her to find me. Rescue me. To fulfil the oath you made to my mother.”

“I did, my lady.”

And she smiles. “I am very grateful.”

Grateful. That's all she is. Of course, Sansa Stark is a young woman whose freedom has been very hard earned, and she belongs to herself and no-one else now. She is not his reward. She may learn to like him, but never love him.

But to a true knight, to have saved the fair maiden is a reward in itself.

* * *

**Bran Stark**

The boy doesn't hate him, that's the thing. That would require feeling something, and the boy seems to have somehow surpassed that. Jaime doesn't understand what happened to him, something to do with the wall and the Others and even Bloodraven, and frankly it all sounds completely mad, but the snow falls hard enough that he can almost believe it.

Jaime remains puzzled that the boy is not dead, although sometimes he's so cold that Jaime thinks he might be; that Bran Stark died when Jaime threw him from the tower, or when Theon Greyjoy slit his throat, and the young man before him is some strange otherworldly creature wearing his skin. Indeed, the only time a flicker of emotion crosses that boy's face is when the Greyjoy lad's name comes up, and everyone does their best not to let that happen, for that seems quite the wound between him and his sister. Jaime wants to pick at that wound, just to reassure himself he is still living in the realms of men, but he knows he shouldn't push his luck.

It didn't do him any good, what he did to Bran Stark. It did not save his and Cersei's secret. It started the war, and that war lost him everything: his children, his father, his brother, his hand, and her. She wasn't even pleased with him for it, she thought he could have found a better way to silence him, a less conspicuous way. She was probably right, but he never was known for thinking things through.

He is sent to fetch the boy and help him dress and get him to his privy and all the rest because everyone else is busy. Perhaps the Starks mean to punish him by making him a servant, perhaps they mean to taunt him with what he's done, but either way he is a very obedient servant. There's no reason for Bran Stark to grab his wrist – his good wrist – and squeeze it so tight it might snap, but he does that, and really, if he loses a second hand then the gods are just being spiteful. But Bran gives him a cold look – almost like his father's, but less judging than knowing. “Stay.”

Jaime does as bid. He's good at that.

It must be the boy who grabs him by the hair and smashes their mouths together – even Jaime's not that daring. The kiss, if you can call it that, is rough and clumsy and full of spite, but Jaime would expect nothing else. Once invited in, he sees no reason to linger on the precipice and so he pushes the Stark boy down to the bed, which he allows, fingers reckless as he yanks Jaime's hair and tugs at his laces.

The door stays open. Everyone could see them, but what does it matter, if winter is coming like these northerners always say, who cares about two cripples who ought to hate each other fucking and keeping warm while they wait? The boy is no wise oracle in bed, although he's not really a man either; he's more animal than anything, biting, clawing and yelping. When Jaime gets his good hand around the boy's cock – that part of his body below his waist seems to work at least – Bran's nails dig far enough into his shoulder to stain his shirt with blood. The boy is as clumsy and as impatient as you'd expect for his years. _Am I your first?_ he almost asks, but he finds he doesn't actually want to know.

Bran screams when Jaime makes him come, and bites his neck like a wolf at flesh. There'll be a mark. Barely a second later, he instructs: “Turn me over.” And Jaime does as bid.

It's a lot like fucking Cersei. It's nothing like fucking Cersei. He's really not sure.

Once they're done, Bran Stark twists his top half to look at him again, whilst the other remains in place. It doesn't look very comfortable, but Jaime says nothing. The heat is gone between them now, and Bran gazes with the cold eye of the Father again, leaving Jaime, a rarity for him, lost for words. After a long moment, Bran speaks: “are you wondering why I asked you for that?”

Jaime shrugs. “I'll admit, I'm a little curious.”

Bran keeps staring at him, and of course doesn't answer the damn question. “You were my first,” he says.

“...I thought I might be.” _Although I hoped not._ “Didn't want to pry though.” Another pause, and Bran keeps on staring. “If it makes you feel better, you were my first since Cersei.”

The boy keeps staring, and then, all of a sudden, bursts out laughing. He laughs so hard the mattress quivers with it, and then Jaime laughs too, and then they are laughing together, which might be stranger than them fucking.

“Really, of everyone in the Seven Kingdoms?” he hiccups, and Jaime chuckles, imagining that Cersei would laugh too. Bran's brow is still soaked with sweat, and Jaime reaches forth and brushes one curl plastered to his forehead way. Jaime's not sure where he got the courage to do that, and yet the boy allows it.

He's not really a boy anymore. He has the body of a man, the purpose of a god, and the needs of a bitch in heat it seems, and yet... something of the boy remains. That same boy who Jaime once threw from a window to protect the woman he loved, the woman he thought he could not live without, and yet who he has lived without for awhile now.

Bran's eye flickers away after he does that, however, something like guilt crossing his face. _He is ashamed of me. Of course he is. He's a Stark, what would his parents think?_ There's no victory in that anymore though.

“I suppose we all need to feel alive sometimes,” Bran murmurs.

On that, Stark and Lannister can agree.


End file.
